


That One Where Stiles Was Sick and Completely Done With It

by hlmwitkowski (orphan_account), httpstiles



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Crack, Dark Crack, Fire, Gun Violence, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Sick Stiles Stilinski, Sickfic, Vomiting, sick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 13:31:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5628346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/hlmwitkowski, https://archiveofourown.org/users/httpstiles/pseuds/httpstiles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has one job. One. All his dad has asked him to do is take out the trash. It’s simple.<br/>Well, it's not so simple when you're sick, run into a guy with a gun, and toss in some unintentional sex jokes and vomit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That One Where Stiles Was Sick and Completely Done With It

**Author's Note:**

> This literally started as a joke idea at midnight through texts and somehow we came up with this hunk of what the fuck between 12:00 and 7:00 a.m.

            He has one job. _One._ All his dad has asked him to do is take out the trash. It’s simple. Well, when he feels as shitty as he does now with this flu that’s been hitting him like a fucking wrecking ball, it’s not as simple. He’s sure his dad would do it himself, but right now he has company over for his annual department barbecue. Of course he can’t have everyone over at once, so they all stop by as they switch shifts with the people at the station.

 

            Okay, first is walking to the door. He can do that– easy. But then there’s the whole ordeal of standing.

            He checks his phone again, looking at the message from his dad.

 

**FROM: Dad (7:19 P.M.)**

_Can you come downstairs and take out the trash?_

 

            It’s _real._

 _Holy hell, okay. Get it together._ He has to make a game plan for himself: sit up, swing legs around, stand. Easy, right? Except for the fact that once he _is_ standing, it’s like his internal organs flip inside out and an ocean of sweat begins to breach over his forehead.

            “Fuck,” he spits, planting his hands over his face and rubbing vigorously, “Okay.”

            He looks down and realizes he has to put on a shirt.

 _Joy_.

            Also, that he has a hard on.

_Cool, yep, that totally makes sense. This is rad. Just gonna go out in front of a bunch of cops with a chubby, looking like I just shot up crack. Wait, do you even shoot up crack? Or is that a different drug? No, okay– stay focused._

            Apparently he’s somehow made it to his dresser, and struggles to get a shirt on seeing as his skin is practically soaked in cold sweat. He wipes his face with the hem of the shirt and blinks a few times, able to clear his vision a bit. The sounds of radio chatter have started to appear outside, as well as chummy conversations and cop jokes. He gets to the door and stops to shake himself around a bit, praying that he can make it out without exposing his *cough* pitched tent to a room full of his dad’s colleagues.

_Oh, no. The shaking was a mistake. Don’t puke– don't puke._

With a few nauseating breaths, he opens the door and starts on his mission.

            Once he’s heading toward the kitchen, his head feels a bit more clear, and he’s even able to manage some smiles and nods to greet his dad’s co-workers. No one seems to notice his _slight_ problem, so he ignores it too and sets forth on the task at hand.

            He works his way over to the side of the counter and pops the top open with the _foot lever_ and pulls the trash bag up and tightens the plastic strings of it. When he’s got the bag tied, he reaches down into the bottom of the trash can to pull out a new bag to replace it. When he does, he’s overwhelmed by blood rushing to his head. The pain is so intense that he’s pretty sure his _other_ head has a sudden lack of blood, but he can’t really bother to check with Deputy Clark drinking a beer to his left. He vaguely notes his spray paint still sitting on the counter by the pantry. He remembers the “art” [read: supernatural related wards] project he has to do and groans at all the _things_ that he needs to do.

            He also can’t help but think to himself that he wouldn’t actually be having to do this if he would just tell his dad how bad he actually feels, but he’s sworn to himself that he wouldn’t worry his dad on a night that he’s supposed to be enjoying himself.

 

            The first step outside is fucking brutal. The cold hits him like a wall, and he actually staggers back a bit in shock. But in doing so, he slams the back of his ankle into the doorstep.

            “Fucking–!” He whines, hopping on one foot for a moment, but realizes his stomach will retaliate if he does so for any longer. He walks down the steps, realizing the need for shoes should not have gone ignored. His toes curl into the concrete, his skin icing over with goosebumps.

            “Fucking department barbecue,” he mutters, “Stupid motherfuckin’… _b-barbecue_.”

 

            He makes his way down the driveway toward the trash cans, still out from trash day, and tosses the bag in. He’s turned to head back into the house when he hears something behind him. His head turns with a snap, looking back, but he doesn’t find a source for the sound.

            He turns to head back into the house again, but comes face to face with a random guy standing in front of him.

            “Erm, can I help–?” the man pulls out a gun and raises it. “Holy shit, okay, dude I don’t have _any_ money on me– I swear. These are my pajamas. No pockets here.”

“I don’t want your money.”

            Fear sours his stomach as he stares down the barrel of a gun, making him want to puke all over again.

            “Don’t try and be smart, kid,” the man says, “Turn around slowly.”

            “Yo, I don’t play for your team,” Stiles says, completely serious and instantly regretting it when a blinding pain shoots across his head as the man smacks the gun into his temple. Totally blindsided, Stiles hits the ground. His cheek and the palms of his hands skid harshly across the road.

            The man leans over him, his knee pushing into the ridge of Stiles’ spine, right between his shoulder blades. “You still feel like makin’ jokes, boy?”

            “Unh,” Stiles breathes harshly, his lips scratching the pavement. “Not particularly,” he groans. The man acknowledges him with a sound that Stiles can’t quite make out over the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, then grips at his neck and moves his knee.

            “Get up,” the man commands.

            Stiles complies as quickly as he can, feeling the gun move to his back. The harsh grip remains. He winces at the gun pressing into him as he lurches forward a step, his hands raising slowly out in front of himself, shaking violently. He feels the nausea coming back like a wave, and squeezes his eyes shut for moment, his chest collapsing as his breath turns into a thick cloud in front of him.

            “What the hell is wrong with you, kid?”

            “Well, I have a _gun_ in my back. Plus, I’m sick,” he responds duly. After a moment he adds, “You should know that this probably isn’t the best idea on your part.”

            “Why’s that?”

            “My dad is the sheriff. You take me in there and he’ll arrest you on the spot.”

            “He can’t do that if he’s dead, kid.”

            “Wait, this is about my _dad_?”

            “What the hell else would it be about? I don’t have the time to waste on people like you taking out _trash_.” _Because werewolves_ pops into Stiles’ head.

            “Yeah, well in this town? There’s a whole lot of other things this could be about…”

            Stiles’ thoughts trail off as they reach the front door. He wonders if it’d be better to let the cops inside handle this guy or if he should mention all of them to the guy in hopes it’ll scare him off.

            “Open the door. Slowly. And don’t say a word or I’ll shoot you now.”

            “Rather than later?”

            “I said not to get smart, kid.” The grip on his neck tightens, and the man leans in close to his ear. “I’m only here for your dad, and you better hope it stays that way.”

            “I’d rather _no one_ get shot.”

            “ _Open the door_.” _Oh yeah,_ Stiles thought lamely, _that._

            Stiles opens the front door and steps inside, the man following close enough behind that he’s close to stepping on his heels.

            “Where’s the sheriff?”

            “He should be in the kitchen.” Stiles glances toward the entryway to the kitchen and sees two for a second. _Fuck_. He blinks and sees one as they start moving there.

            Oddly enough, his dad is there, in the kitchen, and he’s the only one there. There's a small pot of something in front of him.

            “Sheriff!” The man shouts. Stiles jumps at the same time his dad does. The sheriff turns, and Stiles can see his face go from startled to angry in a second.

            “What the hell are you doing with my son?!” the sheriff shouts. The man smiles and pulls the gun into view.

            “Ah, ah, ah, dear Sheriff. I wouldn’t if I were you.”

            “Don’t you _dare_ hurt my son!” The shout brings a couple of officers into the room from the entry behind the sheriff that leads to the family room. Deputy Parrish enters first.

            “Sheriff, what’s going–?” His gaze averts to Stiles. His hand instinctively moves to his side where his gun would be if he were in uniform. A few more people trail in a second later and take in the situation.

            “More cops? Oh dear. Kid you don’t want anyone to die, but the more the merrier, I suppose.” Stiles flinches away from the man’s voice, but the gun comes up to his head and he stills. He can feel the need to sniffle coming up, but refuses moving even that much. Cold sweat starts to ink around his hairline, and he doesn’t know where his emotions could take him. He’s helpless and afraid, but also completely pissed. Literally all he had planned was to take out the garbage. He hadn’t had being held at gunpoint in mind.

            “Here’s the deal, _Sheriff Stilinski_. I want you dead. Not the kid. You let me take a clear shot at you and your son walks away.” Parrish immediately moves to stand in front of him, even though the sheriff tries to move forward, and Deputy Cordova pulls a gun out of his own holster from under his jacket. The man laughs.

            “I guess we’ve come to an impasse, huh, kid?” Stiles’ vision wavers before he can think of a witty response. He feels like he’s starting to tilt, but knows the man’s grip on him is tight enough not to allow it. He feels the need to sniffle again.

            “Dude, before you shoot me, can I get a tissue or something?”

            “Kid! Do you think this is all some fucking joke?!” The man shakes him and–

 _Oh, god_. Stiles’ stomach churns aggressively and he feels hot acid scratching at his throat. He side steps a bit and spins his head away, the man’s grip moving to his arm for better leverage.

            “Hey!” the man growls, attempting to pull him back. But Stiles’ strength is suddenly tenfold for no more than a second as he buckles over and vomits. He closes his eyes, coughing and gagging. He hears it splatter on the floor, as well as the concerned chatter from the others. His retching noises are momentarily cut off by groans, and his stomach finally lets up.

            “What the fuck!” He hears the man shout at the same time that his dad shouts his name.

            Stiles spits the remaining taste from his mouth, his eyes splitting open slowly, “Oh, man that was just... Don't step in that... I– I need a nap.”

            “What the hell, kid?!”

            “I told you I was sick…” Stiles slowly leans back up, his mouth hanging open.

            “You okay, Stiles?” Sheriff says.

            He blinks slowly in response, watching his vision curve and distort. “Dandy, daddy-o.”

            “The hell did you eat?” the man scoffs.

            Stiles’ head spins around a little faster than he would’ve liked, and he snaps in and out of reality for a split second, “Woah… Okay, you’re still here.”

            “Stiles?” His dad’s voice breaks through his stupor for a moment. He sounds more worried than before. “What’s wrong?”

            “Stop talking to him like I’m not here!” The man shouts angrily. He yanks Stiles backward, pulling Stiles’ back flush against the man’s chest, using the same arm he’s holding the gun with to wrap around Stiles’ neck and using his free arm to take the gun and point to his head.

            Stiles gags slightly at the pressure on his throat, looking up to the ceiling where light and shadows glitch and blur together. Tears well up in his eyes and he feels a few stray down the sides of his cheeks.

            “Dad,” he calls out weakly, “I don’t feel good.” His voice is shaky and his legs have a slight tremble to them. “My head hurts, everything is blurring. I think I’m going to pass out.”

            “Fucking hell!” The man shouts again. “I’m done with your guys’ bull shit!” The pressure on Stiles’ throat increases and his air gets cut off at the same time that a shot rings out from the gun next to his head. He hears glass shatter and a steady ringing sound increases in his left ear. His hands reach up and grapple at the arm restricting his air, but the man doesn’t budge. A couple of deputies move the sheriff behind them despite his protests as Cordova steps forward and raises his gun. Stiles feels’ a jerk and this angle makes him a shield from the officer.

            “Get _back_!”

            That’s when he feels the searing ripping pain.

            He screams out, as do several of the people in the room.

            Just above his knee, a numbing burn starts to shoot through his nerves, and he feels warmth oozing over his skin. His eyes dart down to the source, and he feels his heart leap into his throat. Blood soaks through the material of his pajama pant leg, and he catches glimpses of torn flesh beneath the fabric. He’s been shot. He collapses, slamming down onto his knee with all of his weight, but the man’s grip still attempts to hold him up and he’s caught between the two dilemmas.

            The man moves his gun up again and shoots at Cordova, the only threat to him in the room at the moment. He shoots and it skims his right arm. Cordova drops his gun as the man moves to aim at the sheriff. He fires the gun again, but his aim is unsteady and the bullet hits the counter, shattering small chunks of marble off and making them fly up into the air.

            Stiles watches helplessly from the man’s grip, unable to concentrate his depth perception for more than a few seconds at a time, and a newfound ringing in his ear from the shots.

            “I think I might throw up,” he gets out past the pressure on his throat. The man promptly drops him at the comment, making Stiles slide into his own vomit. Stiles is too busy catching his breath to even give a shit about the mixture of bile, peanut butter, bread, milk, and chicken noodle soup. He tries to sit up, but the man kicks him in the stomach, forcing the small contents of what didn’t come up the first time out of his stomach. He feels like his stomach is flipping and he feels the burn of more bile working its way up his throat.

            He pukes all over the floor as the man steps over him. With tears streaming down his face and mixing with snot (because he never got a fucking tissue), Stiles glances to his dad’s horrified face, but he’s looking at the man, then at his spray paint cans. He looks to the man again. At the same time the man shoots at the cans, the sheriff shoves Parrish to the ground. The can pops open and the color bursts into the air, and, as if the man had planned it, it shoots at the stove, knocking the pot hard enough to tilt it. The open flame immediately catches on to the gasses in the air and follow the color path up. Stiles squints his eyes at the stove and catches sight of what was in the pot.

            He'd been frying French fries.

            That thought is all that he has time for before flames shoot out sideways along the spilled oil. Some that had dripped over the edge leads the fire closer to the sheriff’s arm and he gets a few licks of the flame before he can pull away. Then the flames reach up, catching the tips of the curtain over the window to the right of the stove. They catch fire quick and small embers fly away and hit the trash can. Stiles curls into a fetal position, pulling his legs as far from the flames as possible and curling his arms around his head.

            With the sheriff and Parrish on the ground, Clark crawls away from them and reaches for Cordova’s gun. The whole side of the kitchen is catching fire, but for a second, Stiles feels a cold, sharp tip at his neck pressing in, and he thinks _This is what's going to kill him in all this chaos,_ but when the gun is fired, the sharpness is gone, and there’s a small clatter of metal behind him that has a distinct _ting_ to it, followed by a thud.

            Stiles moves his arms and lifts his head up, his cheek sliding against the floor as his eyes roll to look up past it. His ears crackle from the high pitched ringing left pounding against his head and debris from the fire sprays over him, small pieces of ash floating in front of his eyes. His throat burns from the acidic contents that had been emptied from his stomach, as well as the hot smoke that now supplies itself as a substitute for air. He cups one hand over his left ear, that isn’t pressed into the floor, and pushes himself up on his elbow, hacking puffs of smoke weakly from his lungs. He pulls his hand away from his face and he sees red streaking his palm. He lifts his hand again and touches cautiously along his jaw, his fingers meeting with the color.

            “Stiles?!” He's panicking. His ears are bleeding, but he can't find a reason. A voice comes from what seems like miles away, and he looks up. His dad is crawling towards him, his right arm tucked under his chest as he uses the other to support himself.

            “Dad…” he groans with tiny wheezing breaths.

            The sheriff finally makes it to him, curling his legs under himself as he leans over his son, grabbing his arm.

            “Hey,” the sheriff pants, tilting his head to look at him, “Hey, look at me… Stiles, it's not blood. It's the spray paint. The red can. It exploded!”

            Stiles sighs, “I don’t feel good.”

            The sheriff can’t help but smile, coughing out a small chuckle as he places his hand over Stiles’ cheek. The words come almost synonymously with the sound of sirens, red and blue lights flashing in through the windows.

            “Don’t move, alright?” The sheriff lifts himself up a bit and uses his uninjured hand to pull his belt from the waistband of his jeans, leaning forward and pulling Stiles’ left leg towards him. Stiles cries out in pain, feeling the unbelievable sting of blood bursting from his wound. His dad takes the belt and loops the leather just above the wound, snapping his arm back to secure it. Stiles cries again, putting his head into his shoulder.

            “Stay with me, you hear me?” When he doesn’t get a response, the sheriff grabs Stiles’ face in his hand and forces him to look up, “Stiles, do you hear me?”

            Stiles nods weakly, seeing the world through tiny slits as his eyes have fallen almost completely closed.

 

            In the background, various officers are getting to their feet. Clark is taking Cordova’s own belt and doing as the sheriff did for Stiles to him. Behind them, Parrish checks on the two others in the room.

 

            The first responders are the firemen. Two attend the the small fire engulfing the one side of the kitchen and three immediately tend to the people in the room. When one notices the Sheriff’s burns, they move to help him, but he shakes his head.

            “My son!” he shouts. The man moves to Stiles instead, gently lifting him and turning to run out the door. The sheriff turns to his friends and finds that they’re all in good hands and ready to move out, so he runs out after Stiles.

 

-

 

            Looking down at his son in the stark white lighting of the ambulance allows him to really see all the injuries for the first time. His whole body is covered in soot, but on the palms of his hands are harsh scrapes, distinctly matching one on his cheek. On the sides of his neck are small bruising marks, matching up to where the man had his grip on Stiles, accompanied by a small little knick the length of an eyelash. It seems deep, but doesn’t bleed much compared to his bleeding leg. His left hand finds Stiles’ and he holds him tight.

 

-

 

            Coming to a halt, the doors of the ambulance bursts open with doctors shouting with others and paramedics introducing them.

            “Stiles Stilinski. 18. Gunshot wound in his left thigh. Blunt force trauma.”

            The sheriff is about to follow after him, but then then there’s another doctor guiding him a different way, commenting stuff about his physical condition.

            “No, I need to go with my son.”

            “Sir, you can’t do that.” He turns on the woman with rage.

            “And why the hell not?”

            “He’s going straight to surgery.” The sheriff glances toward the hall Stiles was just wheeled down and spots Melissa rounding the corner. She looks at Stiles then over the the sheriff.

            “Sheriff?”

            “Melissa! Please! Go with Stiles!” She doesn’t think about it for more than a second before she follows fast after.

 

-

 

            Unfortunately, the sheriff is still waiting for his arm to be bandaged by the time Melissa comes back with news that Stiles is out of surgery and being moved to a room soon. He insists that Melissa get him all taken care of, but one of the doctors insists more that he do it himself. Nevertheless, she still tells him about Stiles’ condition.

 

            “He's definitely going to heal fine, but physical movement will be pretty difficult with his leg. He's going to need crutches for a couple weeks. He definitely has a concussion, too. Did you see him get hit by anything or did he hit his head falling?”

            “Not that I saw…” The sheriff frowns, looking down at his left hand, still covered in Stiles’ blood.

            “Well he definitely suffered some type of trauma. He's got a bad concussion, pretty severe. Not to mention, the hold you described definitely did damage. He has a bruised larynx, and talking should be okay, but we also see signs of a lack of oxygen to his brain. It didn't do any real damage, and considering you said he was talking to you and responsive are good signs.” Sheriff nods, taking it all in. Somewhere in the middle of Melissa’s talking a doctor must have shown up because there's suddenly one next to him, preparing ointment and bandages.

            “Do you know when he will wake up?”

            “Well the anesthesia will wear off first and that can vary. Because of his concussion, it could be awhile longer, but the doctor doesn't see anything to be worrying about.” He nods again, then winces as the cold of the ointment comes in contact with the he burn.

            “Excuse me, Sheriff Stilinski?” He looks up again to see Melissa at a counter across from his bed in the emergency room and in her place a woman wearing a long skirt and blouse.

            “Yes?”

            “My name is Dr. Blake. I'm here to speak with you about your son.”

            “What about my son?”

            “Therapy, if you or he wish so. I–”

            “Physical therapy? For his leg?”

            “If you would like physical therapy for his leg, that can be arranged within the same facilities at our–”

            “So not physical therapy?” The woman pauses, and for a second she looks like she's trying to figure out how to give him bad news.

            “Sir, your son has undergone a traumatic experience. I specialize in Domestic Violence Trauma and Post-Tramatic Stress. One of either yours or your son’s doctors has expressed a worry for his mental health. I understand from your story that he was held at gunpoint with his life on the line and shot.” He takes a deep breath and nods.

            “Therapy?”

            “Therapy.”

 

            It's nearing 10:00 p.m. when the sheriff is finally released and allowed to see his son. Melissa is in the middle of telling him the floor and room number when Scott comes barreling through the front doors of the emergency room. He's dressed in pajamas with his hair raised in different directions. Once he spots the sheriff, he's running toward him.

            “Sheriff! Are you okay?” Scott’s hands grip at his shoulders and his frantic eyes search over his body. He catches sight of the bandage. “Oh my god! What happened? I'm seeing that your house _exploded_ on the _news_. You're on the news!”

            “Scott, honey,” Melissa says with a smile, stepping in between him and the sheriff. Stilinski laughs as Scott lets himself be moved. “Both he and Stiles are fine. He hasn't had a chance to see him yet, though. Can you wait in the waiting room?” Scott double checks the sheriff before nodding. A small smile plays as his face as his ears move back a bit and his eyebrows move up.

            Scott turns to the doors he just ran through and sees Lydia storming in. She's still in her lazy clothes and she's staring directly at Scott.

            “You guys can get the full story from Stiles later. I'm going to go see him.”

 

            Waiting for Stiles to wake up feels like forever, but it's only with slight worry because he trusts that what Melissa said about him being fine is true.

            He glances at the multiple cords behind the bed and follows their paths. There's a couple that lead to his chest, one that leads to something on his index finger, and the IV line that connects to his wrist with a needle. He can't help but cringe for his son; he knows how much Stiles hates needles.

 

            He falls asleep in the chair and head lying next to Stiles’ waist.

 

            He wakes up to laughter a half hour later.

 

            “Stiles?” He asks, stirring awake.

            “Yeah dad?” Stiles is still giggling a little bit. He smiles past the scabbing scrape on his cheek.

            “Are you okay? Why are you laughing?”

            “It's not the flu,” he responds. “I don't have the flu.” The sheriff looks at him baffled. Of all the things his son is worried about–

            “What do you mean? You had a fever and runny nose. You puked.”

            “And I drank expired milk.” Stiles starts giggling again and leans back against his pillows. “It's just a severe cold. And I drank bad milk.”

            “What makes you say that?”

            “Parrish came in about five minutes ago. He said he was looking for a beer and saw our milk was expired.”

            “You're kidding right?” The sheriff stares at Stiles as his son looks up at the ceiling.

            “Nah, Dad.” Stiles’ heart monitor picks up a little bit and the sheriff adjusts himself.

            “You okay?”

            Stiles doesn't answer. Instead, his dad notices his smile has faded away and he's squeezing his eyes shut.

            “It's okay if you're not okay, Stiles.” Stiles nods and grips hard on his dad’s hand.

 

            “I'm tired of guns,” Stiles finally says. “I live in a world where I have faced the supernatural and _somehow_ it's _that_ that I can compartmentalize.” By the looks and sounds of it, the sheriff can tell that Stiles is upset, but more than that, he's angry, perhaps at himself. “But when any time I've been near death, it's at the hands of a human. The things I can't handle are the ones whose possibilities I've known about my whole life. The _human_ –” Stiles’ voice cracks and he tries to pull his hand away, but the sheriff pulls him in closer. His heart breaks for his son.

            “Stiles,” he tries to grab his attention. “Stiles look at me. Look at me, Stiles.” Reluctantly, Stiles looks at his dad, eyes brimmed with tears and an irritated red. “That's okay, Stiles. I think that after making sense of all the stuff that didn't make sense, the stuff that should make sense just doesn't.” Stiles groans and rolls away.

            “Is _that_ what I sound like?!” He has a half smile on his face, but he's still upset. “What the hell did you even say?”

            “It's okay that these are the things you have trouble dealing with. It just means you're still as sane as everyone else. No one is going to walk away from that free of trauma. Some of the others were injured too and it's not easy to be so helpless in a situation like that. Seeing you held at gunpoint isn't something that the other officers took lightly.” Stiles’ eyes cast away again.

            “Always with the _guns_ ,” he sighs. Images of Matt Daehler walking into his office with a gun pressed into his son’s back pop into head.

            “Admittedly, you seemed more annoyed than scared.” Stiles shrugs.

            “The locker room, though…” His thoughts trail off in a direction the sheriff doesn't follow. “I was one second from–”

            “The locker room? What are you talking about?” Stiles’ eyes pop open, making him look more awake that he has the entire time he's been conscious.

            “I thought– Dad, I thought Agent McCall told you.”

            “What does McDouche have to do with this?”

            “ _Dad– don’t–_ Dad, he saved me. The Chemist. He disguised himself as the SAT instructor.”

            The sheriff thought for a moment and remembered Rafael having to return home for questioning by the FBI, but he'd never known _why._ He realizes now, though, that it's because he killed a man. He did it to save his son.

            “Stiles. What happened in the locker room?” And so, Stiles goes into detail about what happened. He tells him more than he told Scott and he tells him what the Chemist had said. He tells him about how he'd been so ready to die for his friends; even if they would have without the cure, he refused to be the one to give them up for his own life.

 

-

 

            “Stiles?”

            He lifts his head to Scott’s voice, who comes rushing into the room. He’s still in his pajamas, looking like he stepped out of bed no more than five minutes ago. He stops in his tracks for a moment, looking over the state he’s in.

            “Holy shit, dude.”

            “Hey, Scott,” his voice comes out resembling that of a chainsmoker.

            “I came as soon as I heard– what the hell?” he walks next to the bed and lifts his hand to rub sleep from his eyes. “Are you okay?”

            “I got shot,” he coughs, “And blown up.”

            “Yeah, holy shit. You scared the hell out me! I mean, there was like a _shoot out_? And your freakin’ house blew up.”

            “You make it sound like a James Bond movie or something. In reality, I was, still am, sick, got a gun in my face, puked, got shot, fell into my puke, and then the–,”

            “Your house blew up.”

            “Small fire, Sc–” his injured leg spasms a bit and he draws a hissing breath through his teeth, “Small fire.”

            “That sounds more like you,” Scott adds, “And you look like shit.”

            “Thanks, buddy.”

            Scott pulls a chair from the corner of the room and proceeds to plop down at Stiles’ side, “How’re you feeling?”

            “Fine,” his eyes shift down and he clasps his hands together shakily.

            “Liar.”

            Stiles shoots him a look, “What?”

            “You’re doing that thing you do when you’re lying.”

            He puffs his chest defensively, “I don’t do a _thing_.”

            “How much pain are you in, really?”

            “Like a… two out of ten.”

            “Stiles,” Scott holds his hand out, ready to take matters into his own hands, and Stiles jerks away.

            “Don’t do that– I hate when you do that.”

            “ _Well_?”

            He rolls his eyes and closes them, “Okay, maybe like… like a six and a half.”

            “Jesus, Stiles!” Scott frantically finds Stiles’ hands with his own and wraps his fingers around them. Black veins shoot up his arm and Stiles wriggles around, ripping himself from his grasp.

            “Don’t!” he says, his voice gaining more strength at the sudden release from the pain.

            Scott curls his arm into his chest, shaking for a few seconds, “Stiles, you’re in a _lot_ of pain– let me help.”

            “I said I’m fine, Scott. The drugs are doing their job.”

 

            -

 

            Lydia is the second to enter after Scott. She also looks fresh out of bed, wearing a large sweater and pink sweatpants, her hair thrown into a knot at the top of her head. She gasps dramatically when she sees him and stomps to his bedside.

            “I thought you said you had the _flu!_ ” Lydia growls maternally, aggressively pushing Stiles’ hair back over his head.

            Stiles playfully swats her hand away, “Severy cold, and I still do, so don’t get too close.”

            “You scared me– _god!_ ” She flattens the loose wisps of hair behind her ear and looks up at the ceiling for a moment as if to say ‘why me?’ She looks back down at him and shakes her head, “Don’t do that– _ever_. I’m serious, I’ll kill you myself.”

            “Okay,” he smiles to reassure her, “Thanks.”

           Stiles heads home the next day feeling loved by his dad and friends, and even somehow reprimanded by Lydia at the same time. 

 

           He's still sick though. _Seriously fuck my life._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Please remember to give kudos if you enjoyed!  
> \- Hannah & Sarah


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